


The Best Little

by ionthesparrow



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-24
Updated: 2016-12-24
Packaged: 2018-09-11 14:55:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,960
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8990098
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ionthesparrow/pseuds/ionthesparrow
Summary: He comes back the next night, and watches Kyle wait tables in skirt that doesn’t even come close to hitting mid-thigh





	

**Author's Note:**

> Honestly? Me using the break to practice writing porn. This is sort of a scene from a larger story I will probably never get around to writing, in which Nick & Kyle have a messy breakup in college. Nick goes on to play for the Panthers, but Kyle drops out, and drops off the grid, only to turn up later playing low-level hockey & waiting tables in a skirt. For ~reasons. Also, because after _Everyday Travesties_ so many people were like, "okay, yes, but where is our Kyle Rau in panties porn?" 
> 
> This is my humble attempt. I hope you enjoy.

* * *

 

He comes back the next night, and watches Kyle wait tables in skirt that doesn’t even come close to hitting mid-thigh, striped athletic socks pulled up to his knees. He just needs roller skates, and he’d look like he could be delivering chocolate malts to old Ford Firebirds. 

He sees Nick, pauses just long enough to let Nick know he sees him, and turns, fabric of the skirt flouncing as he walks away. 

The blonde girl behind the bar waits on Nick. Tonight, her hair is done in two long braids. 

Kyle ignores him long enough for the first band to finish and be replaced by something with steel guitar. Nick takes in all the details that he’d missed last night. The jackelope mounted over the bar, who’s been given a bushy fake mustache and a nametag that reads HELLO MY NAME IS FREDDIE. A sign half torn down announcing THE QUEEREST LITTLE ROADHOUSE IN – like even the Redneck Riviera abruptly thought better of themselves than to emulate anything from Texas. 

When the second band packs up their gear, and Nick still hasn’t moved, Kyle saunters over, as if Nick, by dint of patience and bleeding eardrums, had passed some kind of test. 

Kyle says, “I didn’t say you could come back.” 

“You didn’t say I couldn’t,” Nick counters. 

Kyle makes a face. 

“I just want to talk.” 

Kyle makes a scoffing noise. “What do we have to talk about?” 

“I don’t know.” Nick shrugs. “That’s why we should talk.” 

Kyle pins him with a long, dark look. His face unreadable. “I’m working,” he says, finally. And then, “But we close at three. If you think you can wait around that long.” He doesn’t wait for Nick’s answer. He turns, then throws over his shoulder. “And if you’re gonna take up a four-top all night, you better fucking tip.” 

Nick nurses beers and watches Kyle cross back and forth, from bar to tables. Several beers in, and Nick is more focused on his legs moving under his skirt than anything else. Kyle’s shirt is tight enough to show the sweat dampening the small of his back, and Nick sinks down low into his booth. The ceiling fan makes an effort at pushing the air around, but the atmosphere is thick and heavy. And the lights give everything a dull, red tint. 

He’s startled when the house lights come on with a buzzing snap, and the crowd seems to blink awake. People filter towards the door, and the servers gather at the bar to tip out. The blonde bartender leaves, blowing a kiss to Nick before she goes. 

Kyle breaks away from the clump of servers. Nick watches him pour two shots of tequila and carry them to Nick’s table. He slides in across from Nick. The hair around his face is damp and curling. He pushes one glass towards Nick. 

Nick says, “This stuff’s gotten me in trouble before.” 

Kyle’s mouth curves. Kyle knows that. But he doesn’t answer. Kyle downs his shot. His lips are shiny and red. He looks up at Nick and says, “We can talk in the bathroom.” 

The black walls of the bathroom are papered over with a decade’s worth of flyers and handbills. The light is a bare bulb on a string, low enough for Nick to bump into and set it swinging. 

Kyle locks the door behind them, shadows from the swaying light running across his face. Nick stands close enough for Kyle to reach out and take hold of the front of Nick’s shirt. 

Nick waits for him to push or pull. 

Kyle pulls. 

Nick crowds him against the wall. 

Kyle’s mouth is hot up against Nicks, and his tongue darts over Nick’s lips, his teeth. Nick tastes the burn of tequila and he holds onto Kyle’s hips. He can feel the hard muscle under that thin fabric, and the skirt is short enough Nick can rest his thumb at the point of Kyle’s hip and span the whole length of it with his hand. With his fingertips, Nick tickles the hem, he presses his nails into the skin of Kyle’s thighs. 

Kyle makes a small, breathy sound. He winds his arms around Nick’s neck, pushing his hips up into Nick, grinding against him until Nick can feel how he’s starting to get hard under his skirt. 

Nick kisses his neck. He mouths at the flushed skin of Kyle’s throat, at the rough stubble just starting to come in at his jaw. He presses his tongue against the thud of Kyle’s pulse. He tastes like salt, and Nick needs him so much it’s hard not to grab and hold. It’s hard not to sink his teeth in, but he lets his teeth scrape down the side of Kyle’s neck. 

“Fuck.” Kyle lets his head fall to the side. Nick can feel his fingers gripping and relaxing and gripping again at the nape of Nick’s neck. Kyle moves his hands, and then his fingers are working the front of Nick’s shorts, getting his dick out, and Nick almost gasps in relief. He pushes hard against Kyle, a full body press that causes Kyle’s back to slide across the wall, tearing a couple of the flyers loose, and send them drifting to the floor. 

Too hard, maybe, too fast, and Nick starts to pull back, but Kyle’s hands follow him, drag him close again; his mouth demanding Nick’s. 

Nick needs to touch him, he needs to get his hands under Kyle’s skirt, the line of it now rudely interrupted by an erection. Nick puts his mouth back over Kyle’s, interrupting a stream of murmured noises, small and breathless, and what might have been Nick’s name. Nick is flushed; heat pools hot steady into him. He rubs the head of Kyle’s dick through the fabric, and Kyle arches into the touch. 

Nick slides his hand between Kyle’s thighs. Stroking lightly against his skin. The underwear Kyle’s wearing is unexpectedly sheer. A delicate-feeling strip of soft, slippery fabric, already damp where his dick’s leaking. The sides are cut high, and Nick runs his finger underneath, hooking the fabric towards him, tracing a knuckle from the crease of Kyle’s leg to where the fabric cuts across his ass, and Nick can’t breathe. He wants to fuck him, wants to rub off against him, push against him just as fast and hard as it takes. He grabs Kyle’s ass, fingers pressing hard, probably harder than he should, and grinds against him. 

Kyle gasps. He’s flushed – his face, his neck, all down his chest. And he’s moaning now, something soft and stuttering and half-held back. 

Nick goes to his knees. He urges Kyle off the wall just far enough for Nick to pull that small slip of underwear down, to ease it over his dick, while Kyle hisses. Nick strokes him, plays with him under his skirt. He looks up, and he finds Kyle looking down at him. Lips parted. Eyes dark. Chest rising and falling, quick and staccato. 

Nick takes head of his dick in his mouth and Kyle’s eyes flutter closed. His hand drifts to rest on Nick’s jaw. 

He’s already slick, the bitter taste on him leaking onto Nick’s tongue. Nick can feel the muscles of Kyle’s thighs quiver. Kyle shifts his weight, widening his stance to balance, and Nick takes advantage touching spit-slick fingers to his hole, rubbing, just barely breaching the rim. 

“Nicky.” He’s loud. Kyle’s head falls back, thumps loudly against the wall. “Nicky,” he says again, and comes in long pulses down Nick’s throat. 

Breathing hard, Nick gets back to his feet. 

Nick kisses him and takes a long time doing it. When he pulls back, Kyle’s mouth tries to follow his. Nick kneads the muscles of Kyle’s ass. “I want to fuck you.” 

“Yeah,” Kyle says, and his voice is slow and thick as syrup. “Let’s do that.” 

Nick leans in to nip at his ear. “Do you have a condom?” 

Kyle snorts. The corner of his mouth curves. “There’s a dispenser right behind you.” 

And there is. Condoms and lube. Twenty-five cents. “You have a quarter?” 

Kyle grins, eyes closed, languid. “Just hit it on the left side. About halfway down.” 

When Nick does, the machine produces everything he needs. “This isn’t your first rodeo in here I take it.” 

Kyle opens his eyes and looks at him, back to how he looked earlier tonight, gaze dark and sharp. “Do you really wanna know?” 

Nick was the first. Nick was the first person who touched him. The first to open him up. The first to make him gasp, and press down and work himself on Nick’s fingers. He was Nick’s before he was anyone else’s, and Nick can feel himself flushing. A low curl of something hot and vicious in the pit of his stomach. And for just a second, it’s like everyone else who’s touched Kyle in here with them. It makes Nick’s skin go hot all over. 

Nick takes him by the hips, quick and firm, and turns him to face the wall. He flips the back of Kyle’s skirt up, runs his hands over the skin. 

He works one slicked finger inside him and Kyle lets his head fall forward, arms braced against the wall. At two, he’s breathy and getting hard again and Nick takes the time to palm his dick. Twitching shivers rack his body when Nick thumbs across the slit. 

Nick thoughts have condensed into a single, throbbing need. His dick drags wet across Kyle’s skin, and he’s so sensitive its like he can feel the weight of the air itself. He noses at the nape of Kyle’s neck, the hairline damp with the sweat, and tongues the salt of his skin. They had this. They were so good at this. Why’d they stop? “God, we were so good at his.” 

Kyle moans. 

He bites at the spot where Kyle’s neck joins his shoulder and Kyle’s knees buckle. 

Nick catches him. Hands curving to hold him up. He can feel the soft flutter of muscles in Kyle’s stomach, his sway as he leans back toward Nick. Always back towards Nick. 

Nick fucks him, one hand with his fingers laced with Kyle, both of them braced against the wall above his head. The other holding Kyle’s hip, encouraging him when he meets Nick’s thrusts. His breathing drops to a low, throaty pant, and when Kyle comes again, it’s with a keening sort of gasp. Nick feels him tense all around him, a wave of pressure bearing down. 

Nick fucks up into him hard, with his face pressed into Kyle’s skin. He can’t hear anything but the rough, heavy noises Kyle’s making, or maybe Nick’s making. Kyle works to stay balanced. And Nick thrusts hard again and comes and it takes him a moment to start breathing again, to stand fully upright, and to pull back enough to see the red mark he’s left on Kyle’s neck. He kisses Kyle’s neck. His shoulders, and pulls out. 

Kyle straightens. His skin is flushed, hair and clothes a mess. The front of his skirt stained. One of socks slid down. Collar of his shirt damp. He looks as beautiful as Nick has ever seen him. 

Out in the bar area, the lights are off. Someone has spelled out GET SOME in peanut shells on the bar, and Kyle chuckles. He sweeps them into the trash before he walks Nick to the door. He makes a vague, abortive gesture back toward the inside. “I gotta lock up.” 

“Yeah.” Nick hesitates. “I gotta head back soon.” 

“Yeah I figured.” Kyle’s arms are already curving around himself, closing himself back off. “Good visit,” he says, and shuts the door behind Nick. 

* * *

 


End file.
